Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy (13 page)

Pratt came and took up a fistful of Lamb’s shirt. Both were tall, both strong, but Pratt was far more of both.

“That’s enough, Saul,” he said, and it would have been difficult for Lamb, infuriated as he was, to ignore the command. If he was afraid of anyone, it was Pratt. Finally, he sagged, and Worth turned her attention to Hall. He was barely conscious, though not by much, a purpling mark above his right eye and a stupid, absent smile on his face, revealing those crooked teeth.

“Some hero,” he muttered, groggily, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fainted.

“Mister Worth.”

She looked up, still cradling Hall’s head. El-Barzin still had his hands on Lamb, but now he was propping him up more than holding him back. All the fight seemed to have gone out of the crewman with Pratt’s looming presence.

“I suggest you and Hadley take Mister Hall up to Surgery,” El-Barzin continued, quietly, urgently. “That was some spill he took, hitting his head on the table like that. We’ll get this one to his bunk, and back to work tomorrow for us all.”

Worth realized with cold suddenness that she was the senior officer, indeed the only conscious officer, present. El-Barzin was making it look like she was in charge, though his experience and calm authority were clearly in control.
Preserving the flimsy fiction of chain of command
, she thought. She knew she should report it all -- the drunkenness, the violence, the insubordination -- but some instinct told her to follow el-Barzin’s lead, to cede some ground now in exchange for the trust of the crewmen. She nodded, and stood.

“Very good,” she said, and somehow her voice didn’t crack. There was no more joy left from the grog, no more pleasant buzzing, just a throb at her temples and an all-encompassing leaden fatigue. She wanted to go to bed, she wanted her father, she wanted some magic button that could reset the entire night. Instead, somehow, she faced it.

“Quintal, get Churchill to help you clean the galley. Pratt, help Lamb find his bunk with these men. Hadley, with me.” As she said each name, she forced herself to look each starman in the face. Churchill was vacant, Quintal amused, Hadley a little sad. El-Barzin and Rowland both showed relief and approval. Pratt revealed nothing, his face an utter blank. It was Lamb’s eyes that were the worst, but she steeled herself and burrowed into those brown holes, hating him, and with every last ounce of herself she willed the message,
you will never touch me again, you filthy animal
. There was no response, no answer, just the slow smoldering burn of anger deferred but not dead. She continued to see those eyes, feral and repulsively magnetic, long after Lamb was gone.

We haven’t even left Earth yet
, she thought later,
and it’s already been a long cruise.

****

Kew was a marvel, but for Banks it held little novelty. He had affection for the sprawling gardens, for the unique treasures it held – a handsome little rowan, for instance, and a crimson-leafed maple, both the last known of their kind – and could never be truly indifferent to the collection as a scientist, but there was no wonder left in it for him. In part, his apathy stemmed from over-familiarity. His late father, the Fourteenth Earl of Northumberland, had been an old friend of the King, and together, along with Sir Eustace, they had shared an enthusiasm for botany. Banks respected botany, but it was merely one among the constellation of his academic interests. For him, this was a place of business, not unlike an office or a coffee-house. Other men, other women, could be slack-jawed in awe of the open air and rambling verdure, but not him. Likewise, and for the same reasons, the Royal Presence had long since lost any spellbinding majesty it might once have had.

The Royal Family were no longer the absolute monarchs they had once been, but neither were they the mere puppets or ceremonial figureheads that the populist democratic crusaders of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries would have made of them. To be sure, the American agitations of the latter half of the 1700s had been inconvenient, and had required political as well as military remedies. Fortunately, Prime Ministers from Pitt to Churchill to Thatcher came to realize that the loyalty of would-be rebels was rather easily purchased with seats in Parliament. In the end, those movements had been only modestly successful, effectively co-opted by the King’s royalist allies. There were concessions, greater influence for the House of Lords, even some window dressing for the Commons in Parliament, but the monarchy endured.

The current King, Charles V, was a largely useless creature; feckless, simple, barely literate, and yet by virtue of bloodline and a talented, discreet Privy Council, he had sat the throne for nearly forty years, and was, from all accounts, widely esteemed by his subjects. He loved his gardens, his birds and butterflies, and being outdoors. Even now, well past seventy, he was quite spry on his walks, and capable of astonishment at the smallest surprises or pleasures. He was an elderly child.

Queen Katherine was an entirely different matter.

The King’s second wife, Katherine had been procured for the thorny, and as yet unsuccessful, proposition of producing a male heir (the deceased Queen Patricia, the King’s first wife, had generated three quarrelsome, tedious, political daughters – it remained a palace joke of some durability as to exactly how Queen Pat had lured King Charles to bed enough times for that happen). Not yet thirty, slightly thickset, aristocratic, and in possession of a keen mind and ready wit, Queen Katherine had very quickly assumed the royal role in the affairs of the Kingdom that her husband happily left vacant. The Privy Council had initially reacted to her activity with dismissive scorn, which swiftly evaporated as the Queen demonstrated her precocious grasp of the art of governing.

It was a damp morning, with a light drizzle, when Banks was asked to stroll at Kew with their Majesties, and the gardens were a different kind of beautiful in the gray mist. Leaves and needles were a deeper green, the muted colors of flowers and berries an impressionistic canvas. The Queen wore a stylish lavender cloak with a hood to keep off the weather, but the King was bareheaded, his long wisps of silver hair plastered across his face.

“Isn’t the rain wonderful?” asked King Charles of no one in particular. “I do love when they let it rain. I should instruct them to do it more often. What do you think, Banks? Hm?”

“Sire,” Banks dipped his head, “it should rain or snow or hail at your pleasure.”

“I think, my love,” interrupted Queen Katherine, “that what your science minister would say in a less guarded moment is that your weather-tamers know their craft and you should leave it to them.” The King frowned, then brightened.

“Worms!” he exclaimed. “There are sure to be worms!”

“Yes, dear. Why don’t you take your little pail and collect some? You can feed them to your birds later.” He dashed off, leaving Banks alone with Her Majesty. She almost sighed, but did not. Banks admired her restraint, and her decorum. She was a fierce defender of the King, a jealous guardian of his reign, and by extension, her own.

“I understand,” she said, turning to him, the motherly tone she adopted with her husband gone, replaced by her matter-of-fact business voice. Banks knew well that there was a coquettish, flirting voice, too, unleashed at need, as well as various other personas. The Queen was a deft political animal. “I understand you have sent a ship to the far reaches of the galaxy, to procure more exotic specimens for the King’s gardens.”

“The Star Lord sends ships, Highness, not me.”

“Don’t be coy,” she snapped. “I dislike coy. It is so very British.”

“Guilty.” Banks spread his hands and hitched his most charming smile to his handsome face. It worked better in the sunshine, he knew. “I am, after all, British, as are we all.” It was the slightest feint, intended to do no real harm, but perhaps to unnerve her a tiny amount. The Queen was, after all, a native of America, and it was well-rumored that her ancestors some four hundred years before had participated in those abortive rebellions against the then-English throne. In any event, she was too well-bred and too shrewd to show any disquiet.

“Your…particular friend, Sir Eustace, was here some days ago.” She emphasized the word
particular
, and Banks knew his ever-so-gentle sally had not gone unnoticed. If she was trying to upset him with inferences about his relationship with Eustace, it was a weak riposte. Their relationship was one of London’s worst-kept secrets.

“I would imagine, Majesty, that the Royal Gardener might spend some time at the Royal Gardens now and again.”

She actually giggled then, and whether it was in earnest or for show he could not tell, but it certainly sounded authentic. She really was not beautiful, though there was a certain animation, a kind of electricity, that she created around herself, and it was hard to look away when she smiled or laughed. She was an Adams, a child of privilege and pedigree, her father the seventh Duke of Boston. She had married the King when she was only twenty-two. Despite her youth, Banks knew ministers who had ignored or underestimated her to their own peril.

“Wit is so much better than coy,” she said. “Let us be candid with one another, Banks.”

He waited in silence, not sure where this was headed. A lifetime around politicians had taught him the virtue of patience.

“Tell me more about this most recent calamitous prediction of yours, if you please.”

The Queen, thought Banks, was a well-informed woman.

“It was discussed at Privy, Highness.”

“Coy again.” She rolled her eyes, and somehow the affectation had charm.

“I would not want to speak out of turn.”

“When the Queen asks, it becomes your turn. I know what was said at Privy. Lord Djimonsu was most expansive with his thoughts on the matter.”

“The Chancellor is my honored colleague,” said Banks, carefully. And then, less so, “Begging your royal pardon, Majesty, he is also an enormous ass.” The giggle rose again, throaty and young.

“Yes, yes, he is, but he is also my ass, and as all women always have, I use my ass to my own advantage. Now I would use you, Minister. I have his thoughts. Will you give me yours, or am I left to surmise his are thorough and accurate?”

Banks had been very cleverly trapped, and he knew it. He took a moment to gather himself, unused to being cornered this way. A butterfly landed on a nearby hawthorn, and he made a show of studying its orange and yellow wings. The rain had all but stopped, and a few white shafts of sun penetrated the gray above. Banks looked to the sky, thinking about Pearce and the
Harvest
, due to launch in only a few hours. And there was Eustace, poor old Eustace, already aboard, excited and anxious and determined to succeed. Could he trust the Queen? What were her motives? If she was an ally of Djimonsu, the ship and its mission could be compromised. That he could not allow, whatever the risk.

“Your Majesty, I stand by what I told my fellow Privy Councilors. It is…unfortunate in the extreme that they did not see clear to pursue a remedy.” He sighed. “I will simply have to try again another time to convince them.” With a silent whisper of color, the butterfly disappeared.

“And this botanical adventure of which Eustace spoke?”

“Just that.” Banks looked the young Queen squarely in the eye and grinned. The gaze that returned was icy and impossible to interpret. Banks kept his face pleasantly neutral, but inside he churned. Every one of his eggs was in that steel and plastic basket in orbit at Spithead. He knew he was running a dangerous game, lying to the Queen, but he could see no other choice. If the journey of the
Harvest
succeeded, he would happily forfeit his titles and incomes in exchange for humanity’s future. And if it failed…if it failed, what did the rest matter? Banks had no wife, no children. He would be the last Earl of Northumberland, at least, the last Banks to hold the title. He had no shortage of nephews and cousins who would no doubt angle and compete for the honor, but he scarcely cared about that. The legacy that concerned him was not Spring Grove, much as he loved it, or his ancestral, and concluding, bloodline, but rather the continuation of his species. With luck, he would be the savior of humanity, and all of mankind would be his true heirs.

At that moment King Charles returned, somewhat crestfallen, soaking wet, with mud and blades of grass stuck to his knees and fingers.

“Only one worm,” he declared plaintively.

“Yes, love,” said Queen Katherine, still holding Banks with her stare. “Only one worm indeed.”

****

Pearce stared out the tiny window of his cabin as the massive presence of Jupiter loomed against a static backdrop of stars. The launch had gone smoothly, despite all the repairs the
Harvest
had needed while in spacedock, and the old girl was as healthy as she would ever be. Now, with Spithead behind and the infinite universe ahead, he was almost excited. This was where he belonged, where he could be of use.

“Enter,” he said when the chime of his door sounded. Fletcher strode in, in the Navy uniform that still looked so strange and formal on her lithe frame. Pearce stood and handed her a flute of champagne.

“To the
Harvest
,” she said, raising it.

“And her crew,” he replied, and then added the traditional Navy blessing, “Good fortune to her and all who sail with her.” They touched glasses, and each took a sip. Pearce looked out the window again. “They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.”

“That’s pretty, Bill,” Fletcher said, and then caught herself with the slightest giggle. “Sorry.
Sir
. That’s taking some getting used to, but I’m working on it.” She sat, still holding her flute, one finger rubbing idly along the lip. “I never had you as a religious man, sir.”

“The 107
^th
Psalm,” Pearce murmured. “Captain Baker had it on the wall of her star-cabin on the
Drake
. I’ve never forgotten it.” He was silent a moment, thinking of Jane Baker and all the other star-mariners who had left Earth uttering the same blessings, but never made it back. He coughed and set down his glass, the champagne inside almost untouched.